They grow up fast; in just a short month’s span
the smallest seed becomes a tall, wild stalk
grown high enough to look down on a man.
But that time does not fly, despite the talk
philosophers will write in dry, thick books.
It crawls, and through its microscopic lens
each moment, its own kernel, often looks
enormous to the untrained eye, and bends
beyond the simple frame that would encage
its constant search to stand free and alone.
The acts of men and gods, played on this stage,
seem little more than dust on ancient bones.
Yet insignificance belies import;
and often what appears not more than sand,
when magnified in life’s uncertain sport
holds more in scope than we can understand.
The weeds that crowd the garden, too, from seeds
the same as precious flowers were conceived.
Who knows what end ideas will breed,
if nurtured like their promise was believed?
14 May 2005
